Vol. 3 / Issue 1 Fall 2011

Day & Night

Image: Wandering in the Wilderness; Sarah Ayer Summerville, S.C.

By Elizabeth Kidder Knoxville, Tenn.

even though you’re across the globeand I’m in Tennessee. I stood in front of the potted azaleas. The mothsbeat against the light,a bark of a dog, and my ears,so honed that I heard youin the brush of the moth’s wings,the lone dog’s howl,the chink of a pebble I kicked down the path. I saw you,stark against the beech treewhich shone dim, like the moon. You moveda hand to answer mine and speak the words I love …But the clouds marred the moon,my careful construction of you was gone.

I turned off the light, got undressed,slipped in bed, but I pressmy eyes close, and I feel you pulse with the beat of my blood and I see you still, outlined maroon against the pale beech tree.

ANNA GEANNOPOULOSco-editor-in-chief

EBONI-JADE WOOTENco-editor-in-chief

KENNETH ROSENcopy editor

MICHAEL BROWNart director

MADDALENA DE BENIassistant art director

AUGUSTA STATZpublisher

ALLISON BENNETT DYCHEadviser

GLEN OSTERBERGERadviser

KIM HERRINGTONad manager

Special thanks to:District Photo Editor Emory Dunn

CONTRIBUTORS

Ajay MalghanAlejandro SolorzanoAugusta StatzCarson SandersChristen GreshamDaniel F. AlvarezElizabeth KidderEmily MoonHadley HenryHolli BrunkalaJae MathewsJoanna HatzikazakisJoseph Cotton SharpKenneth RosenKim YanceyKristen BairdLeandra PszenicznyMary Ella JourdakMicco CaporaleMichael-Etienne EdwardsSarah AyerSarah E. CarrSean CarrowStacy Lynn DiehlYoung Ju Choi

When the District staff decided on “Day & Night” as our theme, we weren’t really sure what to expect. It turns out that SCAD students have an affinity toward night. But not to worry, in this magazine you’ll find a variety of writing styles and visual stimuli. In this issue, we are embracing contrast between emotions, people, colors and styles. Enjoy.

Anna GeannopoulosEboni-Jade WootenCo-Editors-in-Chief

Top Row: Anna Geannopoulos, Michael Brown, Eboni-Jade WootenSecond Row: Augusta Statz, Kenneth Rosen, Maddalena De Beni

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What is District Quarterly?

District Quarterly is an award-winning, student-produced magazine published through the Student Media Center at SCAD. Each quarter, students submit work that falls under the selected theme. The magazine features original work by SCAD students from any medium including fiction, non-fiction, video, sequential art, illustration, painting, photography and more. The theme and the submissions dictate the final product each quarter.

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Illumination / 2

Letter from the editor / 3

Contents / 4

I Know Who I’m Not / 7

Cameron Cooper / 9

Between a man and woman / 11

Bioluminescence / 13

Lights of the City / 15

Day for Night / 18

18” / 20

The Tower / 21

Saltwater Taffy, Baby, Rock Candy Blues / 29

Dans La Lune / 31

COVER PHOTO:Tybee 14

Ajay MalghanLaytonsville, Md.

Ilmatar's Night + Day; Mary Ella JourdakKent Island, Md.

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Day and Night; Young Ju ChoiSeoul, South Korea

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individuality or intelligence, then I am not the person you should hire.

And while you’re asking about my career, let me tell you what I do not want to do with my degree. I don’t want to be a newspaper reporter again, so don’t remind me that the newspa-per business doesn’t pay well enough to repay my loans for SCAD. I don’t want to sit in a cubicle and edit the instructions to build a clock, a piece of furniture, or playground equipment. I don’t want to write a novel, either.

I know that I am not the kind of person who will ever take love for granted or feel comfortable crying in public. I am also not the type of person who would find joy in others’ pain or who would vote against the legalization of gay marriage.

If you asked me my favorite author, I couldn’t tell you. But I can easily tell you what authors I don’t like. I can’t tell you what art I find beautiful, but I can sure tell you which exhibits I think are total garbage.

So, if you want to get to know me, please don’t ask me who I am — ask me who I’m not. You may have to sit and listen for a while, but it’s the only way you will ever get to know the real me.

The next question usually moves on to, “So what are you planning to do with your degree?”

I want to say, “I plan to write a best-selling memoir of my life and do lots of freelance magazine work from my home.” But I know they are already thrown by the idea of a divorced-moth-er-of-two with no income taking classes at an expensive private art school.

So, I give them my standard, more sensible answer: “I hope I can get into public relations and perhaps own my own PR business one day.” The answer is partly true and it makes them nod and smile some more. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll throw in: “Or maybe I’ll do some technical writing for a large corporation.”

Even at the mature age of 36, I still have a hard time defining who I am and what I want to be when I grow up. I go back and forth all the time. But after let-ting the small words from my fortune cookie sink in, I realized that “what I am not” seems to never change.

I know that I am not the kind of person who can continue to work at a job that I hate just to get off of food stamps. I am not the kind of person who can work for people who have low ethics and standards, poor work ethic or zero creativity. If you don’t value my

The other night, I went out to eat Chinese food with my two children. At the end of the meal, we all reached to the middle of the table to claim our fortune cookies from the tray. I always find it amusing to see what insight or advice that little white strip of paper will give me.

But I have to admit, I had to take a moment to pause when I read the words, “Define yourself by what you are not, rather than what you are.” I thought about those words as I drove home from the restaurant, and they haunted me as I tried to fall asleep that night.

I wondered to myself, “I am not … ” As I started filling in the blanks, I realized I have an easier time defining what I am not, rather than what I am.

I tend to become anxious when people ask me, “What do you do?” I hate that question. It’s only a good question to be asked when you are doing something really great in your career.

I always answer, “Well, I’m a full-time graduate student at SCAD at the moment.” Then I get the silent nod-ding of the head with the fake smile and squinted eyes. I’m pretty sure their inside voices are saying, “Aren’t you a little old to be in school?”

By Kim Yancey Richmond Hill, Ga.

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Four O’Clock Faerie; Michael-Etienne EdwardsWashington, D.C.

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“That was Indian food. That’s com-pletely different.”

“Either way, I’d rather not risk spending the entire night in your bathroom again.”

“Fine.”“You could come to my house. My

mom’s boiling chicken.”Mrs. Cooper, Cameron’s mom,

had missed the lesson on seasoning. Her food was as bland as Cameron’s wardrobe. I’m pretty sure he has his mother’s cooking to thank for his weak stomach. When he said “en-tire night,” he wasn’t kidding. He couldn’t even make it across the yard to go stink up his own bathroom.

“I’ll see you later, Cameron.” The pita that night was so delicious.

I ate my piece plus part of what could have been Cameron’s had he stayed.

“I’m sorry Cameron didn’t eat with us,” my mother said as we cleared the table.

“You and Cameron, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.”

“Shut up!” I shot my sister a dirty glance.“Girls,” my mother warned.“We are not. He can’t even climb a tree.”I handed my mom the clean plate

from the head of the table.“When’s dad coming home?”“Late. He had to work.”My mom placed the dish back in

the cabinet that I couldn’t reach yet and sent me upstairs for my bath.

That night I awoke to arguing. I lay awake staring at my Fred Flintstone night light as I listened to my parents failed attempt at yelling quietly. Their voices fell and rose until finally I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway and a door slam so hard that Fred’s shadow danced above my bed. My hand automatically reached out for the walkie-talkie sitting on my nightstand.

“Cameron? Cameron, you awake? Over.”No answer.

I looked down at our arms that had fallen next to each other. Mine was so dark compared to his pale, gangly limb. Cameron had been out in the sun just as much as I had that sum-mer, but it seemed that the rays must have simply bounced off his body and soaked straight into my olive skin. I was certain that when his mother tucked him in, there was no need for a night light because his skin glowed in the dark.

“Owww,” Cameron howled. “That really hurt.”

“I’m sorry.” I was. But at eight years old and the

third of three girls, sometimes I for-got to avoid Cameron’s crotch when body slamming him as we wrestled.

“Here.” I offered my hand, but his were oc-

cupied with comforting his groin as he rolled back and forth. What a baby he was. I hadn’t landed that hard, he was just a wimp. Not just about this, but about everything we did. Whenever I climbed trees, he’d just wait at the bot-tom. He was always assuring me that he couldn’t possibly climb up because someone had to stay below to catch me if I fell. I was grateful at first, but after several tree climbs without ever falling, it became clear that he was just too scared.

“Cameron, are you staying for dinner?”Cameron stopped his writhing and

sat up to answer my mom.“What are you having?” “Pita.”He stared blankly.

“Meat and rice pie,” she smiled. “Um, no thanks, Mrs. H., I think I’d

better get home.”He hid his disgust until my mom

left the room.“It’s good, Cameron.” “That’s what you said the last time I

stayed for dinner.”Image: Night Birch; Sean Carrow

Laytonsville, Md.By Joanna Hatzikazakis Bristol, Tenn. 9

could see were wilted magnolias that had fallen in his usual sitting place.

“Cameron!”“Yeah, I know.”I turned at the sound of his voice.

He was behind me.“That’s why Brad had a black eye

last week,” he said.“Cameron, you climbed! You never

climb.”“I had to ask you a question.”“That you couldn’t ask from down

there?”“Where’s your dad’s car?”My eyes questioned him and he

pointed to my driveway. My fa-ther had left the garage door open when he stormed out of the house. I dropped my eyes. Cameron’s arm and the white magnolia resting between us blended into one.

“He left.”Cameron wrapped his boney arms

around me.“I’m sorry.”He was. And we stayed waiting,

hoping to see the headlights of my father’s car.

“I guess we should get down now,” I conceded.

He hugged me tighter.“I can’t.” “Why?”“I can’t move. If I move, I’ll fall, and

I’m not at the bottom to catch myself.” Very slowly I helped Cameron

make his descent. We were only up in that tree together three other times in our lives. When my father left for good, when Cameron’s sister died, and the night before his fam-ily moved out of the neighborhood. Cameron Cooper was my exact opposite, but it was on our first climb down from Mrs. Willie’s magnolia tree that I realized it didn’t matter one bit. He was my best friend.

I shoved open my window and swung my leg over the ledge into the cool night air. When my bare foot touched the earth, I slid the rest of my body outside and ran through my backyard. The moon lit a silver path to Cameron’s window.

Rap tap tap. Rap tap tap.Light from Cameron’s room spilled

onto the grass. “What are you doing here?” Cam-

eron breathed heavily as he threw open his window. “You scared me.”

“You want to climb a tree?”“Now? My mom will kill me.”“Turn off your light and be quiet.

She’ll never know.”I led Cameron back past my house

and into old Mrs. Willie’s yard. She had the best trees for climbing.

“This one,” I said as I started to climb her largest magnolia tree.

“She has a really big dog. Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this.”

“He’s asleep. You coming?”“I think I’ll stay down here.”“Fine, Cameron, you just stay down

there.”“What?” “I didn’t wake you up to come not

climb with me. When are you gonna stop being such a baby? You know what kids ask me? ‘Why are you friends with him? He’s a weak stom-ached twerp.’” As soon as the words left my mouth I regretted it.

“Yeah. I know what they say.” Cam-eron’s words were so soft they barely reached me.

My stomach dropped.“I’m sorry.”I was.

“You know what I do to those kids though, right, Cameron? I punch them.”

It was silent.“Cameron?”I looked down. He was gone. All I

Image: Night Birch; Sean CarrowLaytonsville, Md. 10

Her: sometimes I forget my twists, forget how fleeting it all is.

Him: hang your earthly pleasures on a wire to dry in the wind. folded fabrics become vile desires. cotton sheets to lay your insecurities in. ensnaring fingers in her hair, pulling back and down, mouth wrenches open. the corners bend into ecstasy, falsely. you’ll die cold and alone, you perverse lump of s***.

Her: how the ending settles better than the sentiments that lend transcends analytical refrain. she smiles, and tends not to fold her clothes. they look too pretty writhing up in the wind.

Him: he folds his sheets twice and finds a new set in the bathroom closet for the bed. he’ll use those old sheets again, but tonight he sleeps on a flower pattern and under a thick blanket, coated in stars, anchors, and ships without destination.

Her: dormant to the relative world nobody knows how ‘neath some stone she dances from star to star. deep breathing nebula and a wisp, catalyst indigo emission. grabbing black from the closet and lace over indifferent parts to pulsate later, with perhaps no less indifference.

Him: creamy petals somewhere silent, slumber seems to meddle with my desires.

Image: Komet Koi; Emily Moon Portland, Ore.

By Joseph Cotton Sharp Charlotte, N.C.

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By Daniel F. Alvarez Clark, N.J.

Image: Tybee 07; Ajay Malghan Laytonsville, Md. 14

By Kristen Baird Richmond, Va.

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By Micco CaporaleCincinnati, Ohio

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He’s panting high above me and there’s no telling what time it is; I wish I knew. I bite his shoulder, hard. With that he’s done. Please, God, promise me that’s sweat on my legs. Within five minutes he’ll be sleeping, and I’ll be ready to leave. He might not even remember me when he wakes up. And here comes the anxiety. His real name is what I came for, but he’s sleeping before I can ask. He’s in a f****ing coma.

I step onto the roof, avoiding piss and bloody glass. I climb way up to the top, fully exposed, and sit bow-legged, my back to the warm part of the sky. It’s real pretty out, and I can’t place exactly how I feel. I smell like somebody else’s body. It’s kinda like getting salt in your eyes.

Much earlier, before he blacked out and I played along, he was whispering such secrets in my ear! I watched the systematic turn of a dice game over his shoulder and tried to decide the difference between luck and charm. It’s easy to see the temptation in what he chose to say; I’ve never met a daughter of the Revolution. Hiccups with a southern drawl, that gets me every f***ing time. That’s not true. It’s just the warm body, the whiskey, someone else’s bed. I try to explain this misery to anyone who’ll listen: why let meat spoil? But, my confes-sions never provide redemption. His memory stops at the fifth roll.

Worse than the bus ride will be the walk home. I’ll pass by the house that has been condemned for weeks now, nervously smoothing the wrinkles out of my dress. For all I know, they still live there. They sit on the porch, smoking sweet-smelling cigars and dancing to music blaring from their Oldsmobile. They’ll hush up as I shuf-fle by, my legs stiff and goofy, eyeing the absent bra and the once lipsticked mouth. F***in’ white girl.

He stands naked in the window pissing on the roof. His body is silhouetted by this quiet light, and I know it’ll be days before I can get that smell out from under my fingernails, his sweat out of my hair. The heat’s slowly rising, and even though the sky is still somewhat deep, the dusty humidity begins. Beneath me, the mattress is bare and my legs begin to itch something awful, but I’m afraid to move for reasons unknown. I just need to wait. I close my eyes.

The bus ride home will be bad. It’ll be rush hour evening, and I’ll have to stand, covered in drywall dust and smeared make up. My back is going to hurt. The pretty girls in their uniforms, with their fake nails, will look at me from the corners of their eyes, trying to guess my mis-takes. I can’t make eye contact, those old men and their crow’s-feet could just about make me cry. It’ll mark the fifth day with this mascara and the seventh day without sleep.

He stumbles and all of a sud-den he’s on the broken glass on the roof, and I’m there standing above him. It’s almost laughable. His feet are bleeding, and I wonder if he’s still gonna wanna f*** me. In the light, my bruises illuminate and I’m ashamed. Shit, he says. You better believe it, I think. And then, somehow, we’ve both found the mattress again. His eyes open, but rolled back, I try to cradle what’s left of his body. It disappears in the light.

Image: Outside; Alejandro Solorzano Caracas, VenezuelaAssisted by Joy Hua and Mecko Gibson

By Jae Mathews Utica, N.Y.

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By Kenneth RosenNew York, N.Y.

Image: Truck Stop; Carson SandersDallas, Texas

Surfacing from the musty, dark tunnel,my heart was swept by the Hudson's warming breeze reaching across Broadway …in Harold Square shoulder-brushing migrants keep heads low, eyes averted.

Minutes earlier I was much cooler in the unit,air-conditioned with the masses headed home; clinging to poles, swaying like the lifeless with each dip in the rails.

Next to me she sat.A mystery even in the well-lit subway car.We caught one's glance, a reflection in the window across —a testament to the still present 18 inches of separation.Shoulders brushing as on the street, but we say nothing.Heart-floats-to-throat … suffocation.

I did not see my stop as the next, nor the one after that, or after that, or …

Shared breaths last a fleeting moment, thenback on the street:Now knowing my heart has gone to the way of the East River.Ushered into the melting pot with the rest.Now lifeless in the bustling crowds,a part of New York's intimacy in confined, dark spaces,and its illusion in illuminated squares.

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a piece of worked metal more tightly, hold it longer, and his eyes would stare a thousand miles away. At the end of the day when he loaded up his pickup, it was no surprise to see a piece of metal in the truck bed with the other scraps.

One day Abigail came, and stood at the foot of the tower and called Jon’s name, once, softly. He heard, and descended, hands sure of their placement on the metal rungs. Then he stood before her, and she said nothing, but gestured to his house, and they both went inside. When she emerged from the house an hour later, not quite half the town was gathered outside the gate. When she reached them, the winter air was warm with repressed questions. She said sim-ply, “He plans to have it finished by spring,” and went back home.

As the weather warmed, and the tower grew, word spread to surround-ing towns, even reaching the city. Every so often a suited, bespectacled man would knock on Jon’s door, interested in the tower. Was it a state-ment? Was it art? What was he trying to prove? Jon would be hospitable, politely thanking the men for their travels, but still would answer no questions about the tower. It became common for the children, on their way home from school, to hop Jon’s fence

There was no question that it was anything but a tower. It couldn’t be mistaken for the frame of a grain silo, or a windmill. It looked like it would shake in a light breeze, yet it was undoubtedly well constructed, because didn’t they sometimes see Jon climbing and scaling the structure like it was nothing more than a playground jungle gym?

The town encased in winter offered little other diversion, and it became common to see a group of people huddled by the fence surround-ing Jon’s property at noon, sipping hot drinks out of plastic thermoses, watching the construction.

Occasionally they’d shout out to Jon as he dragged metal to the base of the tower, or hoisted it high, but he never shouted back. This didn’t discour-age his viewers though. It gave his endeavor a sense of greater purpose, and a hush would settle on those gathered whenever he ascended the tower, for fear of distracting him.

Whenever Jon came into town, on lunch break from the factory, or on errands to the general store, he’d talk to others as though nothing had changed, but he spoke not one word about the tower, nor would he answer questions about it. He worked at the factory as usual, yet those around him would sometimes see him grasp

The tower didn’t appear overnight, though those who first noticed it would disagree. To them, one winter morning dawned where the white sun was caged by a complicated lattice of iron and steel. In fact, the tower had been under construction for many days, weeks even. But in a town where little happened, people didn’t always recognize something different, at first.

The tower was being constructed on the land of Jon Sanders, a local factory worker. The metal came from the scrap yard of the factory where he worked. His job had given him enough experience in welding and construction, so little time was spent on the how. The whispered question on everyone’s lips was why, why was Jon building the tower?

There was no mystery to him, not even the predictable mystery of town loners, old men in older houses who may or may not be dead. He had lived in this town all his life, like his father and mother before him. He’d gone to the local high school, graduated and went to work at the factory. After a number of years working to establish financial stability, and having reached a respectable level of maturity, he became engaged to his childhood sweetheart, Abigail Watson. Nothing about him suggested any tendencies toward eccentricity or tower building.

By Elizabeth KidderKnoxville, Tenn.

Image: Tonal; Leandra PszenicznyMountain Top, Penn.

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something, saw him slowly lift both arms and reach forward, hands open to receive something. No one could see his face, but all felt the fervor of his gaze, and they turned to see what had consumed him.

With their backs toward the tower, no one could ever say for sure what happened next. All anyone knew for sure was that a loud shriek, like a bird dying, split the sky, and as one the crowd turned back to see metal bending and tearing and rivets popping like gun shots, and a dying shudder that ran through the tower as it collapsed.

Of course everybody came running as the last girder settled in the heap of scrap metal, but they all knew it was too late, and they never found Jon’s body. When someone was sent to Abigail’s house to tell her the news, she was not there. She had left last night, boarded a train heading east with only a suitcase and a wooden cigar box.

Having conclusively proved un-stable, the teetering pile of metal was roped off, and mothers forbade their children to play near it, for fear a piece of steel would twist aside and strike them. Jon and his tower became another mysterious legend, and nothing in Jon’s house or effects explained his motives.

Many years later, Abigail would show her son the contents of the cigar box — a fragile clump of flowers that had once been the boutonnière and corsage from his parents’ senior prom, the money saved from years of factory labor, in several faded white envelopes neatly wound with twine, and the drawings, all the drawings of a tower of iron and steel that turned to silver fire when it caged the sun.

to get closer to the tower, much to the disapproval of their mothers. But Jon did not send them away, and soon the bravest were walking around the base, even running their hands on the chilly metal. And all the while the tower grew, and everyone waited for spring.

The last night of winter, when the town was asleep, Abigail made her way to Jon’s. She found him standing in the center of his tower, and she easily navigated her way through the maze of metal to join him. They made love, quietly. Before she left, he gave her something, a wood-en cigar box. His hands lingered on her face, on the strips of shadow cast by the tower. And then she left, clutching the box to her abdomen.

The first morning of spring dawned clear. The sun struck the tower and set it to a fiery brilliance that could be seen for miles. The whole town was gathered at the fence, the young sitting on the slats, the old leaning against the posts. They shielded their eyes from the tower like they would from a solar eclipse, where the fear of damaging your eyes is overridden by the unwillingness to miss a single moment.

The sun was halfway up the tower when Jon emerged from the house. A few overexcited people clapped at his arrival, but they quickly fell into silence, expectant. Then he began to climb. He did not pause to look out at the view, or at the tower to decide where to put his hand next. It was a tall tower though, so it still took him quite some time to climb it.

As the sun sat inside the very last rungs of the tower, Jon reached the top. In the silent morning, those gathered heard him shout

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Please call (912) 233-5767 for scheduling and fare information or visit our website

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Chatham Area Transit (CAT) provides safe, convenient public transportation service to the City of Savannah and portions of Chatham County. Hybrid buses are being used to support the city’s call to become the “greenest city in Georgia.” The fare-free CAT Shuttle traverses throughout downtown, historic Savannah. It’s a wonderful opportunity to see the many squares and points of interests in the city. In addition to the fixed route bus service, CAT operates the fare-free Savannah Belles Ferry that carries passengers between the Savannah International Trade and Convention Center on Hutchinson Island and two convenient stops on historic River Street with it’s popular restaurants, nightclubs and shopping.

District is SCAD’s student produced editorially independent

online news source, and is the official student voice of SCAD.

Participation is open to all majors. We’re looking for writers,

photographers, videographers, sequential artists/cartoonists,

illustrators etc. If you have an interest, we have a spot for you!

Meetings are every Friday at Keys Hall located at 516 Aberson

Street or email our editor at editor@scaddistrict.com

t h e s t u d e nt vo i ce o f SC A D

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District Quarterly’s next theme is Style and we want you to submit.Use your art to explore how we present ourselves

to the world. Style is more than just fashion, it is

the way we categorize, compare and interact with

everything in our environment.

The submissions deadline is Nov. 27 at midnight.

Send all submissions to quarterly@scaddistrict.com.

GUIDELINES:Visual content must be 300 dpi

Written work under 1,700

Multimedia under 15 minutes

Call for submissions

I see Uncle Owen waiting for me at the end of Tybee pier. He leans over the railing as he watches the gulls glide in and out of the fat black clouds hovering above the shore. I try to make a memory of him there, how he always brings me a bag of salt-water taffy and a bag of rock candy for himself. I want to remember the way his Wranglers hang around his waist like a child’s embrace, how his polo shirts always seem just a little too short, but really, the pants are the problem. How his skin looks like my old guitar case, and the things his wrinkled cowboy hat has seen. When he turns around, his lips hold a Marlboro and then I remember never to forget that Uncle Owen will smoke until he turns to ash. Right there, I have to remember why we have to meet at the pier today, the reason I don’t want to forget him.

I take a breath and decide to act like nothing’s wrong. I want to complain to Uncle Owen like I always do. So I walk down the pier and reach for the taffy, already tasting the smooth,

stretchy confection in my mouth.“You can’t ever leave me before

that woman, you’re gonna have to outlive her,” I say, referring to my grandmother — my grandmother who is Uncle Owen’s opposite in every way. To call them night and day would be an understatement; if Owen is rocking chairs and Cracker Barrel, my grandmother is mohair settees and Saks Fifth.

“Gertrude is your grandma. You’ll learn to get along.” Uncle Owen is a relentless optimist.

At this point in our conversation, I come to the realization that the bag I had assumed was my taffy is in fact a bag of cinnamon rock candy. Those flattened, ruby, circular ones twisted in cellophane. The ones I’m sure no one likes except Uncle Owen, those cheap substitutes for when all you want is a peppermint.

“No,” I insist, “Gertrude is my grandmother. Not my grandma. And where is my taffy?”

“Candy Kitchen wasn’t making any today,” Uncle Owen explains what

I know to be a complete fabrication because Candy Kitchen always makes taffy. He just forgot to buy it. I’m not in the mood to complain about that today, instead I just shove the candy back into Uncle Owen’s hands and turn my attention to the water where the waves are getting heavier withreflections of the black-gray sky. I know it will probably storm within minutes, but I would rather stay until the light-ning starts. I watch the tide rise and fall in labored, rhythmic patterns.

“What do you mean she isn’t your grandma?” He presses, putting all his weight on the railing.

I go on to explain that grandmas knit in rocking chairs, wear fuzzy slippers and make snickerdoodle cookies. Grandmas spoil you, grand-mas tell stories and give hugs. Ger-trude is not a grandma, she is a grand-mother. She wears platform shoes and fur coats, makes harsh judgments and wheatgrass protein shakes.

Uncle Owen laughs at me and I put my hand to my forehead, “She’s just a bad grandma, OK?”

By Christen GreshamSavannah, Ga.

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Image: Funnel Cake; Hadley HenryGastonia, N.C.

“Maybe you’re a bad grandchild,” he says, being smart now.

“How? What did I ever do?”“Maybe you weren’t what she wanted.”“But, am I what you wanted?” I ask

even though I’ve lived with Gertrude since I was little and Uncle Owen joined us when I was 12, after his wife died. We had since found solace in each other’s company. Hyperboles aside, Uncle Owen and Gertrude are my only family with the exception of those distant cousins who don’t even know my middle name. I shift my weight, awaiting a response, and the pier creaks uncertainly beneath us.

“I didn’t know I wanted a niece, Annie,” Uncle Owen clarifies, letting out a hoarse, coughing, laugh.

I don’t want to lose Uncle Owen, but he’s cremating himself between rock candies and cigarette packs. Uncle Owen is everything I want in a family — I could do anything and he cares, yet he could care less, which is an excellent combination. He doesn’t mind if I’m still wearing last night’s mascara or that I forgot to comb my hair. But then again, he’s dying and he doesn’t mind that either.

“Oh,” I reply. Then Uncle Owen puts his arm on my shoulder and I smell the beachy saltiness, his cigarette and Jergens soap. Here I can feel him breathe, thick, crackly against my side.

“Annie,” he says, popping a rock candy into his mouth, “Some people are taffy. Others are rock candy and you have to work on them a while. But they’re both sweet, because baby,” He rolls the candy so it sticks out of his cheek and gives a satisfactory smack,

“Rock candy is still candy.”Uncle Owen taps some ash into the

ocean beneath us. I watch it seem to disappear before it can even dissolve. He looks at me and says, “So don’t be getting the blues.”

After some time, he takes a cinna-mon candy from the bag and folds it into my hand. It doesn’t occur to me to eat it, so I push it deep into my corduroy jacket pocket. We stand there

a while, waiting for the lightning, me looking at nothing, and Uncle Owen seeing everything.

The next time I see Uncle Owen, I’m standing in the doorway of a hospital room painted to look like a sunny day. The walls are a blue that’s not seen anywhere in nature, accented with a garish smiling sunshine, and I decide that I’d rather live a million rainy days than spend one day inside a painted sunny day. The doctor apologizes, but really, there aren’t any adult rooms left, and it’s only a matter of time.

My grandmother sits on the bed next to Uncle Owen, head in her hands, though Uncle Owen’s red LCD pulse remains steady. My uncle has fallen asleep and I remain in the door-way watching his chest move heavily, up and down.

Gertrude gazes up at me, her lips pursed, her eyes critical, “Your uncle is dying and you don’t even care.”

I look down at my favorite thrift store corduroy jacket, my knees peek-ing out from my ripped jeans. My heart catches in my throat, “I do care!”

I cross the room to my grandmother and touch her shoulder consolingly. She flinches at the unsolicited contact,

“If you cared, you would have shown some respect and not dressed like a homeless person.”

She turns her back to me. So I turn to leave, shoving my hands deep into my jacket pockets, because pockets are places hands go when there’s nothing to hold. But of course, my knuckle grazes something forgotten, something like a small sticky stone. I pull the rock candy from my pocket and pop it into my mouth. As it melts on my tongue, I remember that day on the pier with Uncle Owen. I think about the saltwater taffy, the storm, and Uncle Owen’s cinnamon candy. I walk back to my grandmother where small whimpers are now escaping from her trembling frame. But this time I take her hand in mine, because rock candy is still candy.

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GA-SW110692 SCADNewsletter.indd 1 8/5/11 2:38 PM

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Beach sunrise. 4 a.m. The sun creates a glow against the lavender-gray sky. The rising sun penetrates the dullness. The sand no longer seems so gray against the pale green water. The rocks come alive with the sun’s gentle touch; they glisten, different than before. The sun reaches into crevices, lightening the shadows. The shore is aglow, and I, I simply sit back in amazement and absorb the heat from the rays, becoming more intense by the minute. I am left simply — dans la lune a la plage — daydreaming at the beach.

By Augusta StatzTybee Island, Ga.

Image: Lavender Gray Sky; Stacy Lynn DiehlAnn Arbor, Mich.

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Image: Helios as a Woman; Sarah E. CarrPort Charlotte, Fla.

SAVANNAH COLLEGE OF ART

8888-0001-0516-7361-51 888800010516736151

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